


oh, but you're an explosion

by aerialbots



Series: narrative causality [3]
Category: Arctic Monkeys, British Singers RPF, Hurts (UK Band)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Photo Shoots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6593920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerialbots/pseuds/aerialbots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'Dress to kill' probably didn't refer to murdering whoever had designed your outfit, but Alex was willing to be flexible."</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh, but you're an explosion

It's not the photo-shoot, is the thing -- it's the goddamn _knickers_.

Alex has no idea who on Earth would come up with the idea of pairing a spread about someone's newest album with pictures of those very people in glittery lace undergarments, but if he ever finds out, he plans on whacking them to death with every single guitar he owns, and _then_ some -- "dress to kill" probably doesn't refer to murdering whoever designed your outfit, but Alex is willing to be flexible.

Miles, on the other hand, seems to find the whole concept hilarious; an aide or another had blithely informed them their shoot had been inspired by the saying "all fur-coat and no knickers", except they're apparently being _revolutionary_ , and so they're stuck in alarming underwear without the safety of the promised coats -- the seemingly-endless supply of fluffy material is just for lying on while looking broodily into the distance.

Alex's only -- minor -- comfort is the fact that they've at least done his hair very nicely.

The posing itself is not so bad -- it's honestly just laying about on a veritable mountain of soft, dark furs -- but the room is only warm enough for their skin not to break into goosebumps, the music is appalling, and he _really_ doesn't want to imagine his mother's face when the shoot's issue comes out. It's easier to not think about it, however, and so he just lies back and gives the camera above them a faintly disapproving look, Miles' cheek tensing periodically against his as he tries not to laugh at Alex's moodiness.

The moment they give them a break, he looks at Miles, gets an amused shooing gesture, and books it. He desperately wants a smoke, but it's a five-minute break and they've only given him a bathrobe, and so he ends up wandering to the catering table across the set, arms crossed tight over his chest as an alternative for huddling into himself for warmth. He picks at the canapes halfheartedly, building a tiny pile of them on a plate to bring back to Miles, and turns around to grab some champagne only to nearly walk into somebody's chest.

Somebody's _naked_ chest.

Alex takes a moment to regret every single of the life choices that brought him here the second his eyes stray down past the lack of a shirt, only to register the man's stupidly tight trousers -- mostly because they happen to be black leather, and are matched by some sort of monstrosities that are probably aiming for goth/military boots but really just look very, very kinky.

"My eyes are up here, you know", the man says, audibly fighting back a smile, and Alex looks away and up at his face it's like he's been burnt.

"I-- yeah, sorry, just -- envy, frankly, you should see what they've put me in under the, uh--" The stranger raises an eyebrow, now very obviously struggling not to laugh in Alex's face, who feels himself flushing with mortification. "Never mind, just-- sorry."

"Hey, no, it's quite alright", the man assures him, his hand resting on Alex's wrist like a hummingbird, brief and fleeting, before he gives him a toothy grin. "I look like a leather pet, it's fine -- all for 'the aesthetic', no? And hey, at least I'm _kinda_ rocking the pants, though you should see me compared to my bandmate -- I'm taller but he's got legs for miles, I don't think my self-esteem will ever recover."

Alex snorts before he can help himself, looks pointedly from eye-height -- somewhere about the other's collarbones, what with the shoes -- to the stranger's eyes, mouth quirking at the corners. "I think you've got long enough legs, if you ask me."

"Do I, now?", the man's grin widens, hip leaning against the table, and his eyes flash with amusement and something that makes the back of Alex's neck feel hot. "A compliment, and it's not even five o'clock! I'll have to write it down in my journal -- 'dear diary, today a very handsome stranger said he liked my legs...'"

"I did not say that!", Alex protests, but the laughter in his voice belies his indignation. He gets a long-suffering sigh in return, light eyes rolling upwards and that mouth still in a wicked curve, if more subtle.

"Oh, very well. 'Dear diary, today a handsome stranger made a point of telling me he did not like my legs, regardless of their length--" Alex bursts out laughing, covers his face with the hand not holding the food plate, "--even if said length was acceptable. Love in despair, Theo."

"Theo, is it?", Alex says, lips twitching still. "Do you usually try to fish compliments from strangers at catering tables?"

"Not at all", Theo replies, pleasant as a seaside morning. "They don't have to be catering tables." At the raise of Alex's eyebrow, he adds, a little closer to shyness, "Or, y'know, strangers. If they don't want to."

Alex grins. “‘Dear diary, today a man with very nice legs and a leather fetish said he’d like to know me better on a fishing trip--’” Theo starts laughing so hard he nearly knocks the entire champagne table down, “No? Good, I’ve never gone fishing in my life -- ‘dear diary, never mind. With great relief, Alex.’”

“Well, Alex”, Theo says, leaning forward a bit, his voice shaping Alex’s name into something warm and rich that sets his heartbeat racing, “how about just coffee, first?”

There are butterflies fluttering against his rib-cage, fizzy-warm, and Alex’s smile softens, turns playful, sweeter. “Ditch the shoes and you’ve got yourself a deal.”


End file.
